


Counterpoint

by sheafrotherdon



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Aftermath, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25712815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: They drop Booker at a safe house, drive on to another; they’re fractured, anxious, and tired.  There’s a palpable sadness in the car—Nicky can feel it like the ache of a still-healing wound, and knows it will take longer to mend than any of the other injuries they sustained.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 35
Kudos: 371





	Counterpoint

They drop Booker at a safe house, drive on to another; they’re fractured, anxious, and tired. There’s a palpable sadness in the car—Nicky can feel it like the ache of a still-healing wound, and knows it will take longer to mend than any of the other injuries they sustained. Nile falls asleep against his shoulder and he doesn’t mind, wishes he could offer such simple comfort to the others as well.

They tumble out of the car at dusk, stretching stiff bodies and saying little. They check the house over, then each turn to managing what they can. Joe heads upstairs, returns with a t-shirt and soft pair of sweatpants that he gives to Nile, gently urging her to shower and get some rest. He sorts through the cupboard for anything worth eating, while Nicky checks Andy’s wound with as gentle a touch as he can manage, patching her up—for now—with supplies from a first-aid kit none of them have had reason to use before. She makes her excuses as soon as he’s done and heads upstairs. Nicky’s left watching the space where she’d been sitting and wondering how long they have with her.

He and Joe eat quietly—soup, crackers not yet stale—before they follow Nile and Andy’s lead to bed. They check all the locks before they go. It’s a comforting routine, even if the people who would most like to find them are not the type to use a key to enter. Nicky follows Joe upstairs, and he’s glad for the sight of a gun tucked into the waistband of Joe’s jeans.

Joe catches his hand the moment they’re alone and pulls him over to the bed, gently pushes him to sit on the mattress’s edge. Nicky goes easily, needing this ritual as much as any other they’ve concocted over the years to hold back the pressing edge of chaos. He tips his head forward, and Joe threads his fingers through Nicky’s hair, mapping the spot where his skull had been blown out by Keane, marking it as healed and whole. 

“I’m glad I killed him,” Joe says, smoothing Nicky’s hair back into place, tilting Nicky’s head up to kiss him.

“I am, too,” Nicky confesses, and presses a hand to Joe’s hip, nudging him to turn around. Joe does so, and lifts his shirt up and off, stands still as Nicky rises to sweep a hand down his spine, to reassure himself that the stab wounds inflicted by Merrick are gone. Nicky presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, to his spine, and then Joe’s turning in his arms, finding his mouth, and they kiss with a fervor that’s bright and sweet. They shift, Joe tugging off Nicky’s t-shirt, tracing patterns with his fingertips that show he remembers exactly where Kozak’s blade cut earlier in the day.

“I watched you die three times today,” Joe says quietly, thumbing a spot below Nicky’s ribs.

“You only died twice,” Nicky replies, and the lightness of his tone belies how excruciating that had been to watch.

Joe’s mouth lifts at one corner, but his smile is sad, and Nicky thinks of Booker, of all that might have passed, and lets out a long, painful breath.

They shower in turn, washing blood and dirt and the feeling of violation from their bodies as best they can, and climb into bed together, hair damp, skin warm. There is so much to say, so much to talk about, but Nicky has no desire to begin that next chapter yet. He burrows against Joe instead, Joe’s arms settling around him, and Joe cards his fingers through Nicky’s hair once more.

“Sleep,” Joe tells him, and Nicky feels the word as much as hears it, his head against Joe’s shoulder.

“You must too,” he replies, as if either of them need the urging. His eyelids are heavy, his breathing slow, and Joe’s chest rises and falls in reassuring counterpoint to his own. Nicky closes his eyes, lets his mind catalog each place he and Joe touch. “We are whole,” he murmurs, less a commentary on their tangled bodies than something else—some thought he has about loyalty and brotherhood that won’t quite coalesce.

Joe is already sleeping.

Nicky follows.


End file.
